


and the history books forgot about us

by ElvenSorceress, siirensong



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Canon-Typical Violence, Falling In Love, M/M, Slow Burn, book nerds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-28 22:06:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6347434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElvenSorceress/pseuds/ElvenSorceress, https://archiveofourown.org/users/siirensong/pseuds/siirensong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The throne of England belongs to benevolent king, Thomas Hamilton, but the pirates of Nassau have banded together under their own chosen, fearsome leader to wreak havoc on the civilization that calls them monsters. </p><p>While attempting to avert war with Spain, King Thomas comes face to face with the king of pirates, and the two are drawn to each other without even knowing who the other is. Thomas can never tell Flint his true identity, but he accepts Flint’s offer to accompany him to Nassau, leaving Woodes Rogers to recover treasure stolen from Spain in his king’s absence and bring an end to Flint’s reign and the existence of Nassau pirates for good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and the history books forgot about us

**Author's Note:**

> Somewhat inspired by the show Vikings, which ElvenSorceress has recently exposed me to (and now I have two sea faring raider/cinnamon roll ships to have my life ruined by...) Also inspired by the latent king!Thomas au I wanted ever since 'Crown For Christmas' came out (and didn't get to finish on time... oops) and the pirate!Thomas au we've both always wanted! So we decided to do something about it.
> 
> Basically a thing where the pirate king falls in love with the king of England~ Eventual smut. Somewhat historically inaccurate, because well, it kind of has to be ^^; - siirensong

  
**i.** treasure

This was hopeless; an entire war rested on his shoulders with this treaty and all he could do was stare down at the blank parchment in frustration, his head resting in his hands. He'd been foolish to believe he could ever do this; most of his own countrymen never listened to him. How was he ever supposed to convince the enemy to? Barely a year had passed, and already England and Spain teetered on the edge of war once again- the treasure haul of the Urca de Lima gold had been taken from Spain's treasure fleet and Spain saw England as directly responsible due to its neglect of reining Nassau in from its pirate regime.

Thomas exhaled in an attempt to calm his nerves, a hand shifting to run through his blond locks. Eventually he picked the feather quill back up, only to grip it as if he were trying to kill it before it killed him. The pen was supposed to be a much greater weapon than the sword, and yet he'd never felt more powerless. Those who counseled him had urged him to send a representative, or at the very least, a partner. But Thomas had learned the hard way the lesson in trusting others — many times over, and what remained of his trust was gnarled and grey and spiteful. 

After an hour longer, no closer to any answers, Thomas once again tossed the quill aside in favor of the cup of tea next to him, long since cooled, thumbing the painted porcelain rose on its side. It was his wife's favorite, and her lucky teacup she'd given him for this trip, hoping the luck would help him find the words. He couldn't help but smile; she was the one bright spot in this godforsaken country. She'd be a far better ruler than he could ever dream of being- kind, compassionate, and wise and could easily outdebate most, if not all, the men in his staff.

Rising from his chair, Thomas decided to leave it for the morning; they were still a few days out and this required his best efforts- Spain would not be convinced to abandon a war on uncertainties. Stepping out onto the back deck of the ship, he felt the salty air whip through his cotton shirt, the spray of the sea against his face instantly calming him, the stars bright against the black backdrop of the sky. 

But there was something else too — a vague spot of white just on the ocean's edge, where the moon lit up the outline of a ship. 

As it drew closer, bright red crosses bloomed against the sails, the grandiosity of the ship causing his heart to sink. He felt even more ill when several ships began to join it on the distant horizon. They were expected, and their ship was alone, with only three consorts, and yet they were in the sights of a Spanish warship?

He didn't have much time to react before one of his imperial guardsmen was pulling him through the door with alarm. “Your Majesty, we must leave immediately—”

Within seconds, cannon fire rattled the ship, sparks of fire ignited around them, his guard catching the shrapnel blast, falling to a dead heap at his feet, his blood spattered starkly against the white of Thomas' garments.

The last thing he remembered was being pulled down the hall to safety and horrified screams begging for mercy.  


≾ ☩ ≿

They said the ship on the horizon was just like any other, but the closer they sailed to it, the more Flint wasn’t certain. It was different. More guns, likely more crewmen, a company of escorts, and it was certainly grander than the other prizes they’d taken. It meant there was something on board that was valuable.

No matter what its defensive capabilities, it was no match for his warship — his crowning jewel stolen from Spain and now used to lure unsuspecting ships hoping for an armored escort to their doom. His crew gave no quarter and easily brought the English soldiers under their control. They were good at what they did. He didn’t allow anyone on his crew, or in his fleet for that matter, who hesitated in any way. When he stepped onto the deck, he had one goal — find whatever it was that was so valuable. 

Gates followed close beside him and either knew exactly what was on his mind or he wanted to. He guarded Flint’s back as they made their way through the ship, searching for something out of the ordinary. His crew sought out the usual winnings — cargo they could sell, chests of coins they could divide, food stores and weapons that were appealing, anything of beneficial monetary or survival value, and while they did find an excessive amount of it all, there was nothing out of the ordinary. 

The main cabin that should contain at least some kind of treasure held mostly books that he would need to have someone retrieve for him, collections of scrolls, a set of porcelain teacups, and the sound of someone hiding — breathing quickly, trying to stay silent, shuddering. 

Flint stopped beside the terrified wardrobe and waited a moment before he ripped the door off its hinges. He grasped the man hiding inside, flung him over the captain’s desk, and pressed a knife to his throat. 

A pair of striking blue eyes stared back at him and the man clutched something to his chest. Flint gripped the man by the collar of his clothes and crushed him with his weight. He turned the blade so the smooth, cold flat of it pressed against tender skin. “Tell me what you’re hiding or your life ends immediately.”

≾ ☩ ≿

It happened before he could stop it; one moment was darkness, the next he felt strong hands ripping him from his hiding place. Gravity betrayed him, his back hitting the polished wood of the desk with a loud thud. Thomas felt the wind knocked out of him, the sting of a blade biting into his throat causing him to whimper in an attempt to reclaim his breath, further hindered by the weight of a man pinning him in place. 

Thomas struggled against him, but hardly a trained fighter, failed to move him at all. Peering up to get a better look at his attacker, Thomas' blue eyes clouded with confusion; instead of the Spanish solider he'd expected to find, he found himself instead looking up into bright green eyes, a man with reddish hair dancing in the lantern's fire light, with no Spanish uniform in sight. It hardly helped his breathing that the man's features were decidedly beautiful. It was true what they said— the devil was hardly a monster; he was beautiful, and once God's favorite.

Still gasping for air, Thomas dropped the book to the ground, assuming the other man was asking about it. Of course, what this man was really after was already in his hands, but there was no way Thomas would ever let him know that. If he gave even the slightest admission about who he was, he'd be killed on the spot. Admittedly, it terrified him to let it go, and he felt a pang in his heart when he heard it hit the floor, but he lived and breathed its words, and had it memorized by heart.

“Take it,” he panted, smirking half cockily, half challenging. “I have a feeling you need it more than I do anyway.”  


≾ ☩ ≿

The spark that flashed in the man’s eyes was far from someone who was afraid. His body was bowed perfectly against Flint’s and the man’s gaze traveled over him far closer to the way a lover might appraise him than the way someone with a knife at their throat might look on him. 

He swallowed hard and resisted the urge to run and lock himself away. He nodded to Gates and let him retrieve what the man had dropped. The idea that anyone could know his thoughts when he looked upon other men was abhorrent. 

He knew plenty men in his crew indulged with each other when they were in need and had no women around, he knew plenty men on his fleet who propositioned other men simply because they felt like it, a few had even blatantly asked it of him, but Flint would not concede to such a thing. Especially not with rodents who simply wanted to win his favor and thought they could do so by offering him sexual favors. Flint would not be used and he would not be distracted.

But this man… His hair seemed soft and neatly kept. His body was warm and lean, and if he were standing upright, he’d likely be tall. His lips were pink and inviting and Flint wondered how they might feel against his own. 

“It’s a book,” Gates said after flipping through it. “Just a book.”

Why a book? There had to be something significant about it, but when he looked to Gates, he saw only the same answer. Flint kept his hands where they were, holding the man beneath him to the desk, but he moved his body away to keep his distance. “All the riches on this ship, and you’re hiding with a book?” He meant his words to come out scornful and menacing, but they didn’t sound like it even to him. If he had to chose a favorite possession, he’d pick a book as well. “Why?”

≾ ☩ ≿

Thomas glanced over at the second man, who was recklessly thumbing through his most prized possession. The one thing before his wife that had been his only tether to the world, giving him hope and keeping him afloat when everyone sought to tear him down for some of his more radical, idealistic views, drastically marred by his father. "Mad King Thomas" they had begun to call him. And maybe it was even true- as the man above him kept him pinned to the table, Thomas remained eerily calm and, even stranger, devoid of fear.

Because what he saw now in those beautiful hurricane green eyes echoed something primal in him; whispers of another life, there but for the grace of God. Whispers crept up his spine like ice freezing, beckoning him into those dark places within his mind he'd willfully resisted for so long. He had no choice but to resist them— if not for his own sake, then for the welfare of his people. But he wondered how long he'd be able to resist it, with his father's own blood on his hands. Thomas knew all too well the tyranny of his father, how desperately he'd tried to mold his son into his own image. But if he was this kind of monster to his own son, then Thomas could not imagine his indifferent violence and cruelty towards those unknown to him.

They'd placed that crown on his head, blissfully unaware that their king's assassination had come at the hands of his own son, their new king, though there was hardly sorrow, only apprehension that a monster far worse might be upon them. Despite Thomas' best efforts to show he was different, the sins of the father were hard to shake. It was just as well — he’d killed his own father, and his bloodstained hands would be denied heaven, but at least he could make the lives of his people better. But how did one go about doing so when it was all tainted? How could he pretend to be righteous in his sin?

He would be expected in Seville soon. He felt the blade against his throat, and wondered if it would be better to let it end here. It was a fitting fate that he should die at the hands of a man whom his father, whom he, had failed.

"Because...." he spoke with a shuddered sigh, "Books are how we make sense of the world. Even God's word is to be found in a book. And I hold onto that one because it's the only thing that allows me to feel as though I still deserve to live. If these were to be my final moments, then I wanted to believe that I might still be loved and forgiven.”  


≾ ☩ ≿

The blade in Flint’s hand faltered in a way it never had before. He swallowed down the hard beating in his chest and searched the man’s eyes for any sign of dishonesty or trickery. But there was none. The man was solemn and unafraid, brave and serene. At peace in a way that made him unfathomably beautiful. His eyes were clear, pure sky and he was made of sunlight. 

What could make him feel undeserving of life? What made him desire forgiveness? How could such a reason be anything but truth? It was an exposed heart, offering Flint blood and sacrifice, and he wondered if he had truly become the vengeful, cutthroat god of war and violence that everyone said he was. He must have. He’d never been anything but angry, full of stormy rage, and tormented by his abhorrent thoughts and feelings. 

People did offer him tribute so that he might spare them. Nothing made him want to show mercy. There was nothing worth such a gift. 

But there was such pain in this man, such a need to believe in something more than what he’d been given. It made Flint feel just as ripped open and vulnerable as he might if he were the one held down with a knife to his throat and a predator looming over him. 

No one had ever spoken to him like they knew what was buried and kept safe and hidden from the world. Some attempted to cut him open and tear him down, but they never saw the real man he was. They never knew what he was really like. But this man did. Because it was the core of his own soul. There was something in this man that matched what was inside Flint. Something that could be immense and infinite. Something worth exploring. 

He drew back his hand holding the knife, sheathed his weapon in his belt, and released his menacing grip. Gates’ eyes were on him and he watched like he was baffled. Flint held out his hand toward his quartermaster until he handed over the book. 

It was beautiful red leather, well worn, well loved, and Flint held it gingerly. It deserved proper respect. It made this man believe he might be loved and forgiven, and such value was immeasurable. He smoothed the front cover, brushed it free of any debris and dirt it might have picked up when it was dropped and unwrinkled a few pages that had been bent. Then handed it back to its owner. 

“You do deserve to live,” he said and knew that Gates was going to think he’d gone mad and lost his damn mind. But he didn't care about any material treasures on this ship anymore. He knew what he’d claim as his prize. “You’re going to come with me.”

≾ ☩ ≿

Thomas sat up, his breath returning in small, sharp gasps of air, his throat freed from the pressure of the knife. Rubbing tenderly at the skin of his throat, Thomas pulled his hand back, thin streaks of blood stark against pale skin where the edge had slightly nicked him. He looked to the contradiction unfolding above him, his eyes following the man's almost deifying touch against the red leather of his book. Thomas' heart couldn't help but to beat a little faster at the sight; this seemingly monstrous man was being curiously gentle. 

He had a thousand subjects at his feet, a kingdom, an empire of millions under the rule of his name and never once had he desired their love, only to help them. His heart never ached to be worshiped, and yet he'd give anything to have this man's prayers. Even more startlingly, he wanted to offer his own. He heard the words that claim him and Thomas felt the pull of his knees to the ground, gravity sinking into his muscles like an opium high. He would do anything this man asked of him, this stranger who'd been his predator only moments ago, wanted Thomas to belong with him. He wanted to be touched with the same love and devotion as the book had, he wanted to believe that perhaps two monsters could make something holy, could make something out of everyone telling them they were wrong. Something had passed between them, something unknown and life altering, and Thomas felt himself addicted.

And then he remembered.

There was a crown of bloodstained gold on his head and it sobered him like a crushing weight, and now he was sinking to his knees for a different reason. If he allowed himself to be swept away, he would bring this man's ruin and the ruin of those around him. Regardless of the public opinion surrounding him, England would not bear a direct affront like holding its king hostage, especially not when those who engaged in piracy were already seen as having caused a war. These are the people he vowed to help when he took his divine oath and they had been failed already. It was hard to see through the haze, even as he felt the book return to his grip. He was a king, and kings in history books seldom ever got their happy ending.

"I don't think that's a very good idea." he murmured, licking his dry lips and trying to convince himself of his own reasoning- the other man's gaze is hard to fight. But in light of their exchange, Thomas felt he owed him at least the warning.

"My name... is Thomas Barlow," he felt himself lie, using his wife's maiden name for cover. "I'm a peer of the realm, en route to Spain for a diplomatic meeting. My absence will be noticed and it won't be long before you're hunted.”  


≾ ☩ ≿

Flint stepped forward with a hand on the hilt of his sword. The man, Barlow, was tall, seemingly delicate, but Flint would never let his guard down nor would he underestimate an opponent. Flint was all cold, sharp edges and swagger. And he could loom over this man with just a mere suggestion.

“Mr. Barlow,” he said with respectful courtesy. “I believe it only fair that you know my name. It’s Flint. Captain Flint, though some do refer to me as admiral as I command a nation of thieves.” He withdrew a soft handkerchief from the inner pocket of his coat and held it to Barlow’s throat. “I’m already hunted.” His words should be threatening but they tasted too forlorn and lost in his mouth. At the very least, he’d found bleak despair to be as terrifying as bodily harm. When confronted with the reality of the man who was Flint, everyone withdrew, everyone cowered. 

He let go of the handkerchief and let Barlow hold it himself. “My fleet is well known in these waters and they are especially known in the new world. I’m the only authority you need concern yourself with any more. If you’ve not heard of me, I am certain you must have heard of savage pirates who destroy and leave no survivors.” The story sounded weary but it was all he had. Everything he’d fought for in his life had become an army of violent, vicious men and women who needed to terrify and murder in order to stay alive. This would be his legacy. This was the only purpose in his life. Maintaining his kingdom. 

He leaned near enough to Barlow that he could smell the sweetness lingering on his skin and clothes. He must enjoy the luxury of bathing. Flint had to force that image far from his mind. That was nothing he needed to think on at the moment. “I would ask that you come willingly,” he whispered, a low, rough rasp. “I have no interest in owning a slave. I’ll allow you to send whatever message you need to, so your associates know that you won’t be attending your meeting.”

Gates coughed at him. Interrupted with a disapproving look. Flint thought he was actually being quite generous. Perhaps that was the problem. Either that or he was concerned that they would be hunted even more than they already were.

Annoyance singed Flint, but more than anything, he wanted to know this man, this Barlow. There was something unique about him. Something that gave Flint the admittedly foolish idea that someone could understand him and know him. It couldn’t be true. How would it even be possible? 

Perhaps he was being stupid. That was Gates’ job — to pull him back from stupid decisions. But Flint looked at Barlow’s lovely eyes and swore he could feel the soul behind them, and he didn’t want to give up on that just yet. If there was any chance, he had to take it. “Join me. I can give you freedom you’ve never imagined. No obligations, no past, no demands from a crown. You can be free of any burden. If you seek forgiveness, I can grant you that. Come with me.”

≾ ☩ ≿

Flint's fingertips brushed his skin and Thomas ached, a longing seeded in his chest he hadn't felt in a very long time. Perhaps never. His heart constricted with disappointment when Flint moved away, leaving him to hold the cloth himself. A vague thought struck him, entirely inappropriate in a life and death situation — the man, this pirate, had a handkerchief like a civilized gentleman might. Flint's mystery deepened, and Thomas felt himself being pulled even further into his depths.

But Flint spoke of not wishing to hold him against his will and the feel of acid turned in his stomach, his previous euphoria dampening itself. It echoed far too much of his father's hold on him. He'd already escaped the hand of his father; he would not be in that position ever again. Thomas laughed half-heartedly, but there was no mirth in it. If only the Captain knew he was speaking to the crown itself. There was no escaping it, no forgiveness in that. Not for him. 

He felt himself increasingly between a rock and a hard place. The war that will befall them for holding a monarch prisoner, especially one they aren't even aware they've taken, will send Flint's kingdom to ashes and ruin. He doesn't know why he cares, but it's a feeling he can't ignore. Everything in him screams that he's met this man for a reason he does not yet understand.

But telling a pirate, one so supposedly well-known for his brutality, that he held in his possession the very king he was fighting, was signing a death warrant. Not only his, but those of his people. With his death, the country would erupt into civil war, in an effort to seat a new dynasty eager to rid themselves of a family who'd brought decades of tyranny. The screams of those on the ship were still in the front of his mind, the smell of gunpowder, smoke and blood, the lives of the crew sworn to protect him begging for mercy then silenced...

"You ask me to come willingly, and if I don't, you'll what? Kill me? Leave me here to wait for my death instead?" 

Stepping closely in front of Flint in a gesture of audacity, Thomas met his gaze unbroken, eyes hardening. His breath shook once again; Flint was no longer pinning him to the table, but his hold unmistakably remained. His mind told him that the loneliness was only playing tricks on him, and yet the unspoken exchange between them remained, haunting him. What he felt was no illusion. There was something between them, of that he was sure.

This man was powerful, his voice alone a siren's song powerful enough for those around him to be willingly lead to their demise, breaking apart against the rocks at his word without rebellion. Thomas found himself listening; Odysseus was a fool to ignore the call.

"Just as well. I don't intend to be one," Thomas uttered pleasantly, too much so, with an edge of warning. Shoving the book at Flint pointedly, Thomas smirked. 

"As I said, I think you need this more than I do. Consider it a gift of our new arrangement."

No, there might never be peace for him.

But, perhaps, one king could free another.

≾ ☩ ≿

Flint caught the book hard in the chest, but clutched it there for a moment and couldn’t say why. It might have been the clear importance the text bore for Barlow, or the fact that it was a book and books had always been his ultimate weakness. But for a moment, he was still and cradled it to his heart.

He couldn’t look at Gates but he knew what expression would be on his face. He knew how he’d be lectured for this later. Flint could feel how reckless and foolish he’d been. The stories that would spread if this Barlow man ever talked. They’d see Flint as weak and sentimental, offering mercy to someone who talked back to him. Offering him cloth to stop a bleeding wound. 

What was wrong with him? No one was worth ruining his reputation. He had thousands of people depending on the terror his name instilled. Flint would kill anyone who dared argue with him. Who dared act so brazenly cheeky with him. Whatever ridiculous bullshit he’d felt, wasn’t worth any of it. He was Flint. There was nothing left of anyone else. 

He tucked the book safely in his coat and withdrew his sword. The long, flashy blade that people whispered always dripped with blood and caused suffering with the smallest of wounds as if he soaked it in poison before he used it. “You made a wise decision. Killing you seems a waste. Your cleverness will come in handy.” He gestured with the sword, threatened with it and forced his gaze into his usual dark nothingness as he led them back to his warship.


End file.
